


The cracks are how the light gets in

by TetrodotoxinB



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, Healing, Mental Health Issues, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2019-02-02 14:31:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12728403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TetrodotoxinB/pseuds/TetrodotoxinB
Summary: Bucky has a realization standing in his apartment in Bucharest.





	The cracks are how the light gets in

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JudeAraya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JudeAraya/gifts).



> Unbeta'd, self-indulgent angst.

The stupid newspapers were always falling down no matter how many times Bucky put them up. He sighed and went about getting out the ingredients for his breakfast. He'd fix it after he ate. It wasn't the safest, but Bucky was hungry and just didn't give a shit.

The apartment was cold. It was always fucking cold. The Depression had been cold. The war had been cold. Cryo had been cold. And this fucking apartment was cold. Bucky fucking hated the cold. Out of frustration, he turned on the oven and cracked it open. If nothing else his ass would be warm while he chopped.

He thought about his plan for the day. Chores, errands, and more goddamn therapy homework. Therapy work sucked, but sitting around in an apartment in Romania freezing his balls off hadn't gotten him anywhere yet. It felt like he was Sisyphus — just as he made some progress everything rolled downhill and he had to start all over again. It felt fucking insurmountable and, more than anything, that just pissed him off.

He started snapping the knife down against the cutting board. Seriously, fuck quiche.

This was stupid. What was it all for anyway? To go home? Yeah, because there were countries lining up to give the Winter Soldier amnesty for his crimes. Not to mention that home didn't mean anything anymore. Home was gone and everyone was dead along with it. 

Bucky slammed the knife against the cutting board hard enough that he snapped the handle off. He clenched his hand around the handle and considered throwing it across the room, but he closed his eyes, took several deep breaths, and gently set it on the counter instead. Sighing, Bucky assembled the quiche and put it in the oven. 

The sun was fully up and light was streaming in the window and illuminating the counter. He grabbed the spray bottle of watered down school glue that he kept under the sink and set about rectifying the literal hole in his security.

An overweight, middle aged man in his underwear was hanging the laundry out on his balcony across the way. For no reason in particular, Bucky paused to watch. 

And that's when Bucky realized it. The work, the struggle, the inane therapy exercises that he'd plucked from the internet about coping and trauma and anger management — none of it was gonna give him some grand epiphany. 

It was about the small things, about the ability to enjoy something without reason, about the ability to just be in life. There was no great enlightenment to be had, no ultimate goal where the work ended. There was just now and living as fully as possible. Where the mundane became something worth seeing, something worth living for, that was what Bucky was learning, that was what all the work bought him.

He laid the newspaper aside and sat down at the counter, looking out the window. A woman on another floor had plants that she was watering on her balcony. Another apartment had cats in the window. The view wasn’t great, and the buildings were shit — thanks Khrushchev — but it was okay, and okay was better than anything he’d felt in a long, long time.

The egg timer dinged and Bucky grabbed the quiche out of the oven with his left hand. It was hot, so he set it on a trivet and picked at it bit by bit, taking small bites. He leaned against the counter and watched as the sunlight changed angles and travelled slowly over the counter, down the side of the cabinet, and onto the floor. 

He watched the light, but there was nothing special about it, nothing different about anything. Still, it felt like the world had shifted around him. Everything he looked like was like seeing it for the first time — new colors, new textures, even new sounds and new smells — but he’d seen all of it a thousand times before. 

The difference this time was that Bucky was actually looking. He wasn’t evaluating everything as a threat, he wasn’t planning escape routes, he was just looking to look. When was the last time he’d just looked at something, he wondered. Had to have been before that damn train in Switzerland. That thought made him realize what a long fucking time he’d gone without really letting himself be a part of the world. It sucked, sure, but that moment felt like what he imagined it was like to be a mountain climber. After climbing and climbing and climbing with only faith to keep assuring him that the mountain, in fact, had a top, he’d arrived. 

In his mind, he imagined the whole of a mountain range laid out around him where before he thought it was just the one that he had been climbing. For as far as he could see, there were mountains — some of the terrain was easily visible, some was obscured by low lying cloud banks. But from where he was there was sunlight, warmth, a brief respite, and the knowledge that no matter how high the mountain, he could in fact summit it given enough time and determination. 

The last bite of his quiche eaten, Bucky was drawn back to his apartment. He put the pie dish and the fork in the sink, and carefully pasted the newspaper back over the window. Leaving it off had never been a possibility, though the fantasy hadn’t hurt anybody. 

Window secured, Bucky fished his notebook from the top of the fridge and sat down at the table. He had homework to do and another mountain to climb. At least now, it felt worth it.


End file.
